


Times of self discovery.

by Pumpkinspiceprince



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 11:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13123011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pumpkinspiceprince/pseuds/Pumpkinspiceprince
Summary: Percival expected Credence to come out of his shell. He didn't Expect how much of an affect that would have on his boy.Percy is a grumpy old man he doesn't have time for all these labels - but he'll make time for Credence.





	Times of self discovery.

Credence has been acting odd for some weeks. 

Not that the boy wasn’t already a bit of an oddity as it was. 

In the six months since he moved into your apartment, though, he had really turned around. He was working days at some bakery owned by the husband of the woman who served tea at your office. He had made friends, Tina the social worker who brought him out of the wrath of his past, her odd and rather awkward boyfriend- no, you remind yourself, they aren't dating. Credence had told you some odd name for their situation, his inky eyes gleaming with affection at the terms- oh, how your boy has come to love learning every name of every kind of queer under the sun, eagerly taking in and accepting the information with raised brows and a small inquisitive smile- and you had simply nodded and let it fall from your brain. Queenie, the tea woman, was her sister, and her portly and kind husband had taken Credence right under his wing. The whole lot of them outcasts of the oddest sort. Credence fit in with them perfectly, much more than he did with a lawyer twice his age who hasn't labeled himself as anything other than his given name since the day he was given it. You haven't an idea why you asked the boy to move in, and were even less aware of why he had so eagerly and thankfully accepted the offer. 

He was laughing. The first time he laughed, you had accidentally sprayed the whip cream meant for his cocoa onto the counter. He had chirped an odd sound, like he was between choking and snorting, and then bust into a fit of childish giggles. The first time he had smiled, you had hugged him after the trial. He wrapped his arms slowly around you and smiled up at you as you parted from him, leaned himself back against your chest like he was unable to part. After he moved in, atleast twice a day he’d brighten the home with a fit of his chirp like giggles, warm your heart with a smile. 

But things had changed, about a month ago. He had come back from some meeting he attended with the lot- and he looked downright shaken to his core. His big eyes puffy and red, his bottom lip bleeding in two dashed lines you recognized as his own teeth as you approached him. 

“Credence, my boy-” he flinched at the nickname that usually made him flush high on his cheeks and it hurt as if you’d been wounded in the chest. “Credence?” you tried softer. He gave you a pitiful look as you pulled him gently to your chest and pet his hair, which has finally grown into soft waves that rested on his cheeks on the nape of his neck from the awful bowlcut that woman made him wear in the commune. “Who has hurt you?” you cup his cheek and lead him to look into your eyes, something you haven't had to do in nearly two months and you prayed this doesn't change his progress permanently. You could only fear the worst. He shook his head and let out a dejected sigh as he leaned into the hand. The boys never grown out of his touch starved behavior, no matter how he improves elsewhere, he still leans into you, still shakes when touched, still clings to every brush of skin like a lifeline. You've personally talked to his therapist about this three separate times to ensure it's not damaging him, and all three times she's told you to let him overcome it himself.

Credence takes several grounding breathes as you hold him, and eventually he speaks. “No one’s hurt me, Mr. Graves. It was just… a hard day, at GSA. I’d like to go to bed, if I may.” You held him tighter for two seconds, placed a gentle kiss at his hairline, something you've come to do in the past three months, Credence absolutely adores it, and finally, slowly as to not spook or deprive him, you let him go. He hung close for two more seconds, breathed in your cologne once more before he faked a smile at you and scurried off to bed, shoulders tight and hunched. 

It's been a month since that conversation, and he hasn't bounced back. He glances sadly at the ground, his dissociative spells are nearly as frequent as they'd been when he first moved in, and you feared desperately for him. But moreso, hes adapted behaviors you hadnt seen him display before. He often now tries to act more masculine, even asked to borrow your cologne. He's always loved the smell on you, but he’s always preferred softer smells, vanillas and lilacs and lavenders for himself. He hasn't worn a single fragrance even close to a floral or a sugar since that night. Even his hair has stopped smelling of his sweet jasmine and honey shampoo. 

You drew the line when one day, around a clenched jaw, he asked you to take him to get his hair cut. 

“Credence, you've worked so hard to grow it. Whats this about, my boy?” Once again, he flinches at the name but tries to cover it with an overly gruff cough. 

“I don’t know what you mean. I just want to cut my hair.” So you take him to the barber, reluctant as you are. Credence sits as you go to sign him in, glances longingly at a woman with long soft curls, and you panic. Has he a crush on a woman? Is that what this is about? That idea and that much hated pang of jealousy that came with it is shattered when a hairdresser snips one lock of her hair, and Credence looks like he's going to be sick. He shoots out of the barbershop in a flash of dark colors and you apologize and quickly follow him out. He's out of sight and you swear your heart misses a beat before you hear a muffled cry from the alley. You rush to him, he's kneeling on the pavement, tears escaping his eyes rapidly as he starts to hyperventilate. Credence hasn't had an anxiety attack in weeks, and you curse yourself for letting him almost mame his hair that he loves so desperately and allow him to feel this way. You sank to your knees next to him, and pulled him close to your chest. He clung tightly, and through sobs he begged, “I never want to cut it again, not ever. Not ever.”

You scooped him into your arms and rocked him, sitting back on your heels as you did, and within five minutes of the affectionate whispers of “You never have to, Credence. You can grow it as long as you want.” and similar promises, his cries calmed to soft whimpers and his clearly aching muscles relaxed. You stayed in the alley minutes longer before he was calm enough to be walked, a hand on his lower back that slid affectionately back and forth above his hips, back home. He hugged you hard when the door closed, mumbling thanks into your shoulder, and went to his room once the embrace was carefully ended. 

At least after that, his fake masculinity was less obvious. He still didn't use his soaps, he wore plain clothes everyday, and scarier still - he stopped attending his weekly gay meetings, or whatever the hell they were, with his friends. He nearly stopped seeing them outside of work at all. He stayed in his room, coming out only when he was shaking with need to socialize, and even then he simply clung to you as you read through cases or watched tv. 

You're desperately worried. You've never cared for someone long term before, and even though your odd and unnamed relationship to Credence is probably the strangest thing you've partaken in in your life, it's also the most important. He's always with you, you've come to love him with an intensity you hadn't felt before. Credence was like a live in partner, a child, and a puppy had a sick love child and dosed it with an anxiety disorder and something his therapist tells you is called CPTSD. He’s changed the way you live your life, and in doing so, your life he has become. You haven't an idea if that's romantic love, a thought you never ponder for long before blocking it out. You certainly have no intentions to find out or admit that you're gay at forty five and a half years old. You’ve been alone all your life. It’s That simple. So you never push it, never let those sessions of affection lead to any more than affectionate kisses on his hairline, lingering hugs and the occasional session of something that could only be named cuddling as you turn on the game show network, petting his hair as you watched shows from your own youth and newer game shows that you get to experience with Credence. He thinks the cash cab is hilarious. He.s also never hailed a cab, and refuses to sit in one, because he's so afraid of ending up in it. 

You do love Credence, that's an undeniable fact- but you won't give that love a name. All you know for sure is that Credence is hiding something, something that's crushing him, and that's crushing you. 

So, You hunt down Queenie Goldstein at work.You've never drank a drop of tea in your life and thusly have only ever stopped at her cart for the occasional snack when office hours run too long even for you. Her blue eyes widen as you approach her cart and she stands a little straighter. “Hiya, Mister Graves. You need a tea, sweetie? Or if you’re hungry, I got some of Jacob's biscuits and a few pastries left.” 

You've never been anything less than blunt. “Why is my charge acting like someone kicked him in his pride.” She sighs sadly, frowning so deep it slumps her shoulders. She's never been anything less than expressive. 

“Cre, that poor baby. I can't tell you, Mister Graves, Credence has gotta do it himself. He won't even talk to me, after. But…” she leaned over the cart and whispered. “Cre’s having some.. Some identity issues.” You sigh and nod. You’re sure you’ve seen those words in a guide book on raising queer youth, something you purchased after Credence started attending those meetings, but whatever it means is slipping you. Though you don’t like to think of your relation to Credence as raising him, since he a grown an after all, you are by all intents and purposes his caregiver. Even his therapist reports to you as if Credence was a child and you his parent, something that happened at Credence’s begging request. He trusts you to take care of him and you’ve failed desperately, somewhere. 

“He's a mess, Goldstein. I can barely get him to leave his room. His therapist is equally as worried. He’s canceled two appointments.” 

She reaches and holds your hand in her own dainty one with a surprising tight grip. “You gotta give him permission, mister Graves. You gotta tell him it’s okay. Show him. He hangs on every word you say to him, honey. That boys got it so bad for you, and you yank on his little heart every turn he tries to take with ya.” You frown at that and nod. You aren't blind, or stupid, and Credences love for you has certainly been the romantic kind since it first blossomed in courtrooms and secretly stolen private lunches. Oh how the boy adored the idea of being with you in secret, even just in the capacity of lunches where you let him sample sweets. Maybe it was that infatuation written clear on his face that made you take such an interest in him in the first place. You certainly didn't expect such desperate affectionate glances from barely 20 year olds, of any gender, at forty five. His eyes gleamed every time you spoke, and oh, the way his shoulders quaked and his eyes fluttered closed the first time you examined his bloody and scar riddled hand in your own the first day Tina Goldstein dragged him to you, begging you to do something for him and his sisters, get them out of that “cult” as she called it. She wasn't wrong. The conditions where honestly worse than she descibed, it was the human rights scandal of the year. You desperately felt that unnamable feeling for him at that first touch, and you've been a fool over it since. Credences longing has only become more intense, and the boy has no idea how to hide his emotions when he isn't dissociated. He wears them plainly on his face and in his eyes and is so easy to read, you don't have to be Queenie Goldstein, self proclaimed psychic, to see how badly he wants you to kiss his lips instead of his head.

“Give him Permission to what? I’ve never, in all the time I’ve had him, discouraged his sexuality. Even if i'm not…” She pinned you with a stare and you sighed. “What I mean to say, is that I don't know how to encourage him anymore than I already have.”

“Sweetie, you're his idol. You gotta tell him, in clear words, he can explore whatever he’s gotta. Can call himself what he wants.” Your brows furrow and she rolls bright blue eyes. “Mister Graves, you’re denser than Abernathy. If you cant see what's happening to ‘im, you're either stupid or willingly ignorant.” You startle at her bluntness, but ultimately, it wounds you. You frown honestly and slump. 

“Listen, Queenie. I have no idea what any of this stuff means. Im practically an old man, I was raised in a catholic family, I grew up in the outskirts of nowhere before I moved here after law school, and I only moved her because my only friend wasn't exactly treated nicely where we came from, and I couldn't bare to part ways with her. The culture shock nearly gave me whiplash. When I was Credences age, I would have avoided him or anyone like him as if they had plague. Because that's how gay people were treated, then. There weren't ‘GSAs’ or queer support groups or LGBT oriented therapists or all of this news coverage of - of” it hits you suddenly and you stand a little straighter, brows furrowing. “Are you suggesting Credence… Isnt. That he isn't? A. um.” You scratch your stubble and stare at her from under heavy brows, wishing she’d just end your suffering sentence for you. 

“That he maybe isn’t exactly feelin like a boy, mister Graves. Yes. And maybe if there were all those resources then, honey? You wouldn't be unmarried at nearly forty six and sayin its cause you're just too busy to meet the right lady, and giving that self repressed nature a chance to rub off on Cre, whos been beggin for your approval like a stray dog begs for food behind Jacobs shop.” She gave you a look like she didn't have it in her to even regret not biting her tongue, her chin up defiantly and a blonde penciled in brow raised. You've never been so truthfully insulted in your life and she didn't even raise her voice. It felt like being chided by your own mother, only Queenie didn’t have an adorable irish accent to lighten the blow. You want to be angry. You could be incredibly angry, but you aren't. Stunned silent for a moment, yes. Then you let out a pathetic sound from your throat and wipe a sweaty hand down your face, wondering when you started to perspire. 

“Perhaps I wouldn't be.” is the only thing you can say, and she looks pleasantly surprised. And then three seconds later, she looks absolutely heartbroken, probably on the account that you're getting choked up and the hand in hers is now shaking. She comes around the counter and gives you a hug, and you sigh the sudden sadness out against her shoulder and thank God no one else is in the room. “I didn't mean to rub off on him that way.” 

“I know ya didn’t mean to. Credence is... complicated, Mr. Graves. He’s at a complicated place in life right now. He needs your support, 110 percent of it.” She pats your cheek affectionately and you nod. Queenie gives you a free cocoa when you promise to talk to Credence as soon as you can. 

Which is much sooner than you expected, because you're sent home early by Sera for looking too disheveled to do your job. She asked you who died, and when you said it was your sense of self, she sent you out and demanded you be back tomorrow with a clear head. Your life long friendship has never had space for anything but blunt honesty and looking out for each other in ways that to anyone else would sound like harsh punishment. 

When you arrive home, Credence is on the couch, on his laptop. He’s looking at these soft looking pastel colored sweaters on a blog, you hate that you even know that word, with a yellow, purple, black and white background. The clothing is decidedly rather feminine, and modeled on young girls. He must have not heard you come in, because normally when you so much as glance at his screens he shuts them off or snaps them closed. 

“That sweater would look great on you.” You offer, and Credence nearly jumps out of his skin. He snaps the laptop shut with such force you worry for the screen.   
“Mr Graves, dear lord in heaven you scared me!” he stammers, face red and you cant tell if he's more scared or embarrassed. Frankly the poor kid looks like he may meet his dear lord in heaven right then. When he calms down a bit, because your hand had shot out to hold his cheek in comfort, he sheepishly looks up in search of eye contact.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean to give you a fright. I just meant to say- that sweater, it’d look wonderful on you.” He blinks and then as soon as the words sink in, hes red up to his ears. 

“T-Thank you, Mr Graves.” You move to sit next to him, pulling his laptop into your lap and opening it back up. It isn't locked, and the page reopens. The screen is broken by some miracle. Credence is looking away pointedly. 

“What color do you like best, my dear?” At that he looks back at you, at least, he looks at your hand where you're moving the mouse over the links that correspond with each article of clothing. He studies you carefully for a long moment before he begins mumbling. 

“You shouldn’t buy me things, Mr. Graves , I’ve done nothing around the house for weeks, I haven't even been doing my shar-” You waved him off. Credence’s modesty has always gotten the better of him. 

“Credence, Please. Let me do this for you. It’d make me feel better.” He sighs softly and fidgets his hands before speaking. 

“The, uh. The mint one. I like the mint one.” You click the fourth link, opening it up to an amazon page in another window. ‘Womens pastel soft minky mint sleeptime sweater’ is only sixteen dollars and shipping is covered by prime, Its already signed into your account, so you simply click “buy now” before Credence can get a word in edgewise. 

“I spoke with your friend, Queenie, today.” You smile at him, his face nearly blank with shock. You gently rub his knee. He scoots closer to you and presses his face silently into your shoulder, so you wrap that arm around his shoulders and pull him close. “She didn’t tell me a thing. Chewed my head off practically, but gave me no information. Told me that’s for you to do. I’ve been meaning to get you some new clothes, anyway. Winters coming along. You’ll look adorable in this, I can’t wait to see it on you.” 

Credence only mumbles a suspiciously watery “thank you” against your shoulder. As you suspected, tears soak through the fabric and onto your skin and you pull the fragile body close. 

“Dear, hush now, it’s only a sweater.”  
“S’more than a sweater.” he demands, and you smile down at the top of his head.   
“Tell me why, why is it more than a sweater.” He looks up at you, black lashes sticking together with tears. His face twisted with a strange pained expression. You wipe the tears away from almond eyes with your thumb and pet his hair. 

“I can't tell you, Mr Graves. I can't.”   
“My sweet, sweet Credence. You can tell me anything. Everything.” you cup his cheek and he’s melting, face pressing into the touch, so warm from how much blood was supplying his red cheeks. 

“I c-cant be your boy anymore, Mr Graves I’m.. I don’t feel like a boy, not anymore.” He chokes, and you haul him into a tight hug, petting the back of his neck under his curly hair in a way you know soothes him. 

“You’ll always be mine, Credence. I just need you to tell me what to call you, how to talk about you now. Im admittedly less than well versed on this.” He lets outs a watery laugh at that, as if to agree. That atleast brings a smile to your face, “I need you to show me, my dear. Tell me how to learn. I want to make you happier, Credence.” Credence is shaking on your chest and remains that way for a long time. His fists are balled so tightly in your shirt you think he may be cutting his palms through the cotton fabric. You coo soft noises to him. You press numerous kisses to his forehead and into his hair, and after some time he’s relaxing against you in a way he hasn't since before this whole thing started. The next few moments are spent with him panting and sniffling, and you simply petting his hair out of his face. 

“I.. I guess I can try.. To explain it.” You smile encouragingly and help him to sit up, but you take his legs and toss them over your own lap. He leans his side against the back of the couch, and you put an arm over the back of it so he rests his cheek on the bend of your elbow. He looks terrified to continue, so you reach with your other hand to pinch his cheek, and then use it to stroke his knee and shin. Sometimes comforting Credence is a lot like calming a scared animal. It takes you back to the days in the south, calming your mothers horses. 

“I.. I guess. I guess, after I moved in here, and I was starting to come out of my shell and.. And be myself more. And be present in my head and my life a little more and explore.Explore my feelings about life and about my.. sexuality and about uh. Well, about myself as Credence the person and not Credence the son of Mary lou Barebone. Not Credence the boy adopted for being so clearly a sinner at four that I needed to be corrected. Now i just get to be Credence, this person who is allowed to actually do something with my feelings and let them grow... I dont know. I guess I started thinking about myself… differently. It wasn't exactly conscious at first. I don’t think.. I don’t know. I started spending so much time at GSA, and with Queenie.. And she's so beautiful, and I kept thinking that, and it made me feel really bad about… about myself, I guess. And it scared me, too, because the only thing I really knew about myself, about who I am… was that I only liked men. All these people at GSA, they know themselves. They know themslves down to a science. They have scanned their entire lives to pinpoint when and how they discovered these parts of themselves and I... I was working so hard to just live from day to day, l to keep Modesty and Chasity alive too.. I never got the chance to even play with a toy to know if I liked barbie or GI joe more. Let alone t take time to think of what that might mean about me as a person. ” he frowns deep, hiding his face in your elbow and crossing his arms. You pet his knee again and he continues. “So I started to panic, because I couldn't stop thinking about how pretty Queenie is. After a while I figured out… I wasn't, I wasn't staring at her because of attraction but.. Envy.” He shutters out the word and curls in on himself further. 

“ I didn't have a crush on Queenie. I wanted to be like her. Be pretty like her” he warbles, so you bend the elbow he's nested in and pet his hair. “I wanted to be pretty, But then I got even more freaked out because I was starting to think.. To think maybe I was trans - Transgender, I mean, like that olympic runner woman my mother preached about a few times.” He looks at you, pleading with you to know what he's talking about so you nod. You may not be the most well versed but you doubt anyone on the planet missed that bombshell “But the idea of having.. Lord this is personal Mr Graves, I’m so sorry.” His voice cracks into a whimper and he wipes at big tears that gathered on his lashes. You shake your head and pet his neck gently and he almost chokes on his words as he continues. “Anything other than a penis, well, that creeped me out in the same way that realizing I wanted to have breasts kind of freaked me out.” You pet the soft spot behind his ear and he nuzzled into your arm in appreciation of it. “So I finally caved in and asked the GSA administrator what she thought, and she. She showed me all these blogs, of other people, people who didn't feel like men but didn't.. Really feel exactly like women, either. P-people like me, who were raised as boys and- and even people who were raised as girls. There's lots of names for it, I guess, a lot of sub-labels and different kinds and types but the whole general group is called being non binary. And, and I even talked to a few other people like me online, who felt bad about having one part but still liking another. Because, because I.. I don't feel like anything, not not like a boy or not like a girl exactly and.. I don't even know what a boy or a girl is really supposed to feel like. The only things I ever got to know about.. Were sinning and not sinning. Women's duties and men's duties, but ma never let me do either. Even as an adult she only let me do children's work, handing out pamphlets, cooking with the girls. I never had a chance to think about what I felt like until now. But I.. I dont think I'm a man, I don't want to be called one. But I dont uh.. I dont think I'm a woman either. I dont know why I'm supposed to have to choose. I dont feel like either. That's called agender, I think s-so I’m. Im that I guess.” you pet through his hair and he leaned up into it, his face pinched as he struggled through talking this much. You think, this must be the most words Credence has ever spoken at one time, “I guess the, the bad feeling part is called dysphoria. Theres a word for it, Percival. Lots of people have it- l-lots of people don't fit into the boxes, either.”

You pulled him closer, onto your lap, and he hid his face away into your neck and took those deep breaths of your cologne that you didn't realize you missed so much until it was happening and you clung to him nearly as fiercely as he was clinging to you. It was alien to hear your given name on his tongue but it welcomed, personal in this moment. “I-I’m still just.. Just Credence. But, but i would like it, maybe, if we, we could start calling me just.. Just Cre. Instead. While I figure this out.” there was a hopeful kind of question behind his horrified and pathetic tone, so you pressed a soft kiss into the side of his face. He had spoken fast and warbled but you were pretty sure you caught most of his feelings. You’ll ask more later. 

“Okay, Cre. Anything you want. Anything that’ll help you feel better. I've been detesting seeing you so miserable with these feelings. I'm so sorry I didn't make it clear enough that you could tell me, you can tell me anything and I’ll still love you. I’ll always love you, my dear.” he gasped at the word love leaving your mouth, and it hits you that you've never actually given voice to that feeling before. You immediately pet him a little more, pressing another gentle kiss to the high of his cheekbone to keep him from hysterics. 

“I- Mr Graves, I love you too.” His voice cracks and you hold him close, nosing at his cheek, his neck, his hair and his ear. He shakes and clings tighter onto you, and you can't help but pull him into your lap more fully and arrange him to straddle you in a full body hug of sorts. The intimate closeness of it all, of his confession, of the sharing of loving words, it intoxicated you. You did no more than hold him fully chest to chest, your chin hooked over his shoulder so your necks were pressed together, and he was gripping around your shoulders so hard you're nearly afraid he’ll strain himself with it. “Cre, my dear, shhhh. I've got you.” You pet his hair and rubbed his back and he nodded, snaking his legs back behind you so even those wrapped you tightly. You arched your back a bit to accommodate before settling back once everything was comfortable. You sat silently holding each other for a long time, basking in the return of closeness, before you whispered into his hair. 

“I have confessions I must make, too, Cre. If you're willing to hear them.” He nodded immediately in eager confirmation. 

“Anything, Mr Graves. You can tell me anything.” You smile against his skin on the nape of his neck and kiss it gently before speaking. “Im not single because I don't have enough time to date.” Cre hummed a little noise of consideration. “I… Dear, I haven’t said this, not out loud, not even admitted silently to myself in my own head. You'll be the first to hear it. Because you're the first to inspire it so desperately that I cannot… ignore it.” Cre was tense in your arms with anticipation, his heart was hammering against his chest harshly and you could feel his pulse where you have your temple against his neck. “Im truly single, because I've never fallen into even an infatuation with a woman. Once, while vacationing in Vegas I saw .. a very beautiful young man.” you groaned, huffed out a little strained laugh. “he was a drag queen. A very convincing one, but one nonetheless. I shared a night with him. I blamed the city, the alcohol, his insistence. Inside.. I knew I wasn’t straight. I was planning on being alone to avoid it. Ive spent my entire life dodging this, refusing to admit it but I. I’m attracted to… boys.” and then you pulled back and placed a hand on his cheek, brows knitting, “perhaps I shouldn't say boys? Because I've found I love you more desperately than anyone Ive set eyes on before you, and if you aren't a boy, then I suppose I'm not entirely fitting into the boxes here, either. What I mean to say, Cre, is that.. I suppose I'm not straight, I used to be very lonely as a result, because there was so much fear in my heart about ever pursuing anything... and then you came stumbling into my life with those big doe eyes and such a beautiful face and I- even before I could repress myself into letting you be, there I was whisking you off on private lunches and then doing something as reckless as asking you to live with me. Who was I kidding, acting like I’m anything other than head over heels for you.” Cre was staring at you with those same big shocked doe eyes now, only now tears were wobbling over their rims and spilling down his face for what you hoped were different Reasons. You wiped them away and cupped his jaw with both hands. “Cre, We’ve been toeing around a romantic threshold since you moved in. I know its my fault. I am so, so tired of toeing. Will you be my?” you waited for a word to come to you to describe a newly described genderless partner.   
“Date.. Datemate?” he supplied quietly and you grinned widely at such a cute title. 

“Datemate. I like that. Will you be that to me, Cre?” That was apparently all he needed as far as convincing goes, because immediately his lips were pressed frantically against yours. You used the hands on his jaw to hold him there, slowly kissing him, just soft motions of closed lips, and even that brings whimpers and coos out of Cre’s throat. You rest your foreheads together, smiling at him softly when you stop the kiss because Cre isn't remembering to breathe. He pants now, face in your throat and all his limbs tighten around you. You squeeze him back carefully, rocking ever so slightly. “I’ll take that as a yes, then?”   
He nodded frantically and you pet him and lean your head against his. Many moments are spent that way. Your eyes were slipping closed when you heard a mumble against your throat. 

“We, um. We should get some sleep.” he was saying, though he sounded wounded at the idea of parting. You grinned because you didn't have to, as you put your arms under his backside and the other around his back as you stood up. He tensed rigid and then relaxed as he giggled out the tension, it vibrated against your throat and you felt absolutely enriched as you carried him to your bed. You pull back the covers before you settle him down on it. He’s grinning and you're so happy you could explode as you lay at his side and pull him flush to your chest, covering his face is little pecks of kisses. He giggles so much he hiccups and you both laugh, clinging onto each other. The laughs turn to tired coos and little pecks turn to soft kisses on his lips, a hand petting his hair gently. His eyes are closed and his lips are curled into a smile that melts you so deeply you regret every moment in the closet since you've met him. You press your face into his hair and it smells of only Cre’s sweat, and you decide right then that tomorrow you'll encourage him to pamper himself the way he used to love to. For now, however.. The base smell is actually a comfort. He coos at the kisses you place in his hair. 

“Percival, m’getting sleepy.” he mumbles through a smile and you love the way your name sounds on his tongue. You press a soft kiss into his hair. He curls against your side happily. 

“Let’s get some rest. I need to be up early and at the office anyway, Sera is angry with me. I have a few cases to catch up on.”  
Cre leans up and presses a gentle kiss to your lips. “Goodnight, Percival. We can figure.. The rest out, tomorrow.” He hides away in your neck and you hold him tightly against you.   
“Tomorrow. Goodnight, Cre.” Your lids feel heavy by the time he’s snoring gently against your neck, and you fall asleep with him wrapped tight and safe in your arms.

**Author's Note:**

> I havent written In a long time due to some personal issues, go easy on me, but feedback is always appreciated! I may add more chapters to this, both to add onto the backstory of Credences life in the mentioned commune/cult , and his future now that hes making these new discoveries about himself!   
> Also yes, he still uses he/him pronouns for simplicity. That however may change in future chapters if i choose to continue this work. I am also agender and use he/him pronouns.   
> Percy is a grumpy old man he doesn't have time for all these labels - but hell make time for Credence.


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